American Horror Story - Season 1-75 E4-5 - Alone
by leaftheweed
Summary: Michael's pity party. The Boy Wonder suffers a moment of weakness...but no one sees it.


((_This excerpt originally was supposed to appear in Armageddon Chapter 4, right after the earthquake that followed Constance's resurrection. Michael didn't want anyone to see it so, like his dad, he took it out and hid it. I found it stashed among the Season 1 excerpts and thought I'd share it as a lagniappe._))

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Nobody understood.

But then, how could they? Michael himself didn't even understand. Not truly. All he knew was what Father Jeremiah and Mother Constance had told him when as a child. They told him he was special; that he would lead nations one day. He was a future king.

Sitting alone in the earthquake-tossed back room of his decimated church, Michael didn't feel at all kingly. He had read about a lot of kings and while many faced serious obstacles and issues, he was certain none had it as bad as he did. For one thing, all the other kings knew the boundaries of their kingdom. They knew who their subjects were. They knew where they belonged and there were standards for what made a king good at what he did.

Michael felt like he was flailing blindly in the dark.

When he was younger, he had envisioned his time of ascension as being something like a coronation or swearing-in of the president. He had expected the world to acknowledge his ascension by way of news articles and maybe a movie of the week. With global communications being what they were now, he was pretty sure most of the world thought he was a rumor. It wasn't like his being in the world was affecting the survivors in Australia or Poland, that they would know.

But he knew.

He could see the affect of his presence everywhere. He didn't believe it at first but the older he got, the more evident it became that he was the reason things were so bad. It was like his simply being someplace made things polarize to the dark side. He was growing leery of spending time with the villagers because of the influence his presence seemed to have.

It was possible he was accepting too much blame: He wouldn't tell a man to cheat on his wife or a child to steal from his best friend. People would undoubtedly do those sorts of things even if Michael weren't around. But he could sense how his presence tainted his surroundings. He could feel that influence spreading as he got older. Even if he wanted to stop it, he didn't know how. He was no king. He was a pawn in a game much greater than one young man.

Michael sighed and drew his knees up. His butt was starting to hurt from sitting on the uneven floor for so long, but he didn't want to move. He had nowhere that he wanted to go.

"Why me?"

He didn't mean to say the words out loud. Saying them brought stinging tears to his eyes and made his nose burn.

Why him, indeed. He had wondered that many times in his life. He had wondered it when Mama Constance had said he couldn't go to school or have friends. He had wondered it when Tate said all those mean things about his being the son of the devil. He had wondered it again when those mean things turned out to be true.

He swiped angrily at the tear that sneaked out. He wished he could remember the dream he had about riding the dragon, when he nearly died as a kid. It had been too long, though, and his recollection of the event had never been clear. Over the years, it had lost cohesion and he couldn't even remember now what he had dreamt and what was from that old movie he found in the attic of Murder House.

In the past, Father Jeremiah helped him make sense of things. The man had been ace at knowing what to say to stop Michael stewing over what couldn't be changed. He always had an explanation that made everything sensible, even things that weren't. Jeremiah didn't offer explanations anymore, or stories. The situational life lessons were gone. He didn't quote scripture anymore. He didn't smile.

More tears sneaked out and rolled off his chin, but Michael just put up with it. The pain in his middle made him not want to move. No matter what he did, it was going to be wrong. He suspected that even if he did the opposite of something he wanted to do, somehow it would still end up being the wrong thing to do.

And what was he supposed to do anyway? How could he feel so incompetent when there weren't any rules to being him? He should feel every bit as liberated and entitled as he pretended to be but most of the time, he just felt lost and angry. Alone.

That's what he really was: Alone.

The hot tears trickled freely now, silently. His nose ran and he bothered to wipe that on his sleeve because he couldn't stand the feeling of it.

He had been alone most of his life, despite having people near. Now he understood it was his destiny to always be alone. And for some reason, that knowledge hurt. No matter how close he might get to another soul, they would never be like him. He would never be able to share everything he was with another person. If it didn't outright kill them, it would terrify them. They certainly wouldn't accept or love him. He wasn't sure he was worthy of love, being what he was.

He sniffled and sagged back against the dusty wall. He told himself he needed to get used to being alone because the future was a long, long road. Instead of bolstering him, though, it just made him feel worse. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, but it didn't stop the tears.

"I never wanted this," he said to no one.

xxx

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Author's Note:

So, there's the root of a lot of Michael's obnoxious behavior right now. The car wrecks and temper tantrums all tie into the base mentality of being alone and unwanted. Which might seem strange considering he routinely has flocks of stalkers and later manages to pack an arena with people attending his birthday celebration. But it's not the same as having real friends.


End file.
